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On One O ne n Twelve Tweelv Tw lv ve

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One:Twelve Issue 005 / Volume 003 Winter 2013 275 W. Woodruff Ave. Columbus OH, 44140 Editors Steph Conlan Wes Hiatt Tyler Kvochick Matt Johnson Ian Mackay Tori McKenna Emily Mohr

Treasuer Publishing Chair Editing Chair Design Chair Managing Editor Managing Editor Public Relations Chair

Call For Entries If you would like to submit your work to be included in a future issue of One:Twelve, send it our way:

onetwelveksa@gmail.com

Check us out on the web at onetwelveksa.com

Follow Us: Facebook: One:Twelve Twitter:@onetwelveksa

One Twelve

Fast Times at Knowlton High It’s not an easy thing to compose a magazine, we discovered – much less so when it is left to the busy hands of design students. It takes not only work, but coordination, organization, and passion. Constantly responding to the demands of our education, we sometimes lack the time and energy to pursue our own diversions. Thus the only armature that can be identified within the magazine is the willfulness of its contributors.

And we are glad to have made a space for their endeavors.

The issue that sits before you is a mixed bag, full of various pieces of insight and parts of thoughts. At first we were somewhat ambivalent about its patchiness, but are now fully confident in the result. No grand concept unites and binds the content; we simply let the thing happen. The product is not an ad-hoc collection, but a collage of ideas, quickly composed, edited, and assembled in various states of disorder.

That’s not to say that One:Twelve will always be this way. As the magazine develops, its identity will surely gain definition. We’ll be thinking about how this should play out, and you should, too. Whatever else it becomes, One:Twelve will remain a reflection of the intellectual situation of KSA students.

The Editors

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Issue 004 Correction

The following is the corrected text, title, and credits to the One:Twelve Issue 004 Issue Image appearing on page 78: The image depicts “Faces II,� an installation produced in a seminar led by Stephen Turk with KSA students: Daniella Beltran, Kara Biczykowski, Eugene Calara, Abigail Callos, Allison Drda, Eric Haddenham, Janet Hong, Andrea Kamilaris, Joshua Kuhr, Brian Lee, Matthew Marano, Emily Neymeyer, Elizabeth Schneider, Joseph Sizemore, Natalie Tancous, Adam Welker, John Yurchyk

Contents

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Politics of the Ideal American Villa Tyler Kvochick

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Garbage City Dustin Valen Methods to this Madness Emily Mohr Unstable Tirania Fabrizio Furiassi

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Notes for a Personal Statement Wes Hiatt Farmview Matt Johnson Second Person Architecture Jeff Anderson

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On Iannis Xenakis Matt Evans

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Concrete & Celluloid Adam Welker Smells like Modernism Ian Mackay Faces III: Buttons & Balustrades Stephen Turk & KSA Students

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Authors’ Notes

Jeff Anderson Jeffrey Anderson is a candidate for a Master’s degree in Architecture at The Ohio State University. He is from Wilmette, Illinois but has been a resident of Columbus for the last six years while studying architecture at The Ohio State University for both his undergraduate and graduate degrees.

Matt Evans Matt Evans is a percussionist living in New York City. Matt received his Master’s degree in percussion performance from the Eastman School of Music where he studied with Michael Burritt and acted as president of Eastman’s student run new music ensemble Ossia. He was awarded the 2012/13 Catherine Filene Shouse post-graduate fellowship to work as the assistant production manager with the New York based new music group Bang on a Can. Matt has worked closely with Bang on a Can as well as other chamber music groups So Percussion, Nexus, and Ensemble Signal.

Fabrizio Furiassi Fabrizio Furiassi is a graduate student at Sapienza University of Rome (Italy). He is a former visiting student at Architectural Association (UK), MIT (USA) and Berlage Institute (NL).

Wes Hiatt Wes Hiatt is currently a senior student of architecture at the Knowlton School of Architecture. He is a Columbus native and an editor of One:Twelve.

Tyler Kvochick Tyler Kvochick is in his 4th year of undergraduate study at the Knowlton School of Architecture. He is convinced that the singularity is approaching. His interests include design, reading, and robots. He is also an editor of One:Twelve

Matt Johnson Matt Johnson is in his last year of his undergraduate career studing landscape architecture at the Knowlton School of Architecture. He is currently an editor of One:Twelve. He was an establishing member of One: Twelve and his essay “Nature of Landscape” appeared in Issue 004 of One:Twelve.

Ian Mackay Ian Mackay is an editor of One:Twelve. He is currently pursuing a dual MLA/ MCRP degree. His essay “Sites of Serendipity” appeared in Issue 004 of One:Twelve.

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Emily Mohr Emily Mohr is currently a fourth year in the Knowlton School of Architecture.

A Cleveland native and an editor of One:Twelve, she is anticipating life’s adventures post-graduation.

Adam Welker Adam Welker is a recent graduate of the Master of Architecture program.

During his time at the KSA, he was a graduate assistant for the history and theory sequences, taught sketching on two study abroad trips, and was an establishing staff member of One:Twelve. He currently works at Ford & Associates Architects.

Dustin Valen Dustin Valen is an intern architect living in Toronto; he received his M.Arch degree from Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Author of the thesis The Time Capsule: An Investigation Into the Architectural Ruin exploring conjunctions between landscape gardening and adaptive re-use, he is currently pursuing an advanced degree at the University of Toronto’s John H. Daniels Faculty of Architecture, Landscape and Design and is the recipient of the 2012/2013 Peter Prangnell Award in support of research entitled: Something Smells; Sympathies between Design and Waste Management Practices.

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Politics of the

Ideal American Villa

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Tyler Kvochick Pilgrims, pioneers, settlers, frontiersmen; this is what we were and what we wish to be. The settlement of America has always been driven by the conception that living on the land will bring about a meaningful valence between the patterns of man and the patterns of nature. The physical trace of this ideology is made manifest in the architecture of the American house. Ever elusive, the geometries and politics of the house are not totalizing. There is no house that can be truly ideal. Rather, every instance, every fad, is precipitant from and reciprocal with an ideal politic of American morality. Each “villa” becomes an ideal representation of this politic that it then helps to shape. There is no espousal of these values, merely their sensible copy shown through structural positions. Each house, then, is ideal and not ideal. No mere contradiction, but a paraconsistent set of logics that figure and are figured by the same pastoral politic.

Contributing to this conceptual construction of pastoralism are the two actions that define the relationship of each villa to its pastoral politic. Precipitation and Reciprocation relate the structural realization of pastoral ideals from and to the standing concept. Precipitation defines the pastoral concepts that each villa has made manifest, while reciprocation defines how those realities impact the resultant conception of pastoralism. It is not a linearly structured subject-object relationship, but a an indeterminate manifold which can inflect many subjects, many objects, and deform many concepts. Pastoralism is morality, is economy, is philosophy; and is most clearly traced through the problem of the house. Within each instance of the American villa there is the same shifting political legacy. Settlement in America is the product of a perceived moral duty to guide the transformation of the virgin landscape of the New World into a utopian state for man. All of these position themselves against the image of the horizon; as a moving finish line or a vista to be captured. The structural relation of the house to the landscape is the trace of the politicized relationship of settlement to morality. Whether participating in the execution of the American Dream, or projecting the pictorial representation thereof, these are the politics of the Ideal American Villa.

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MORALITY

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MOBILITY

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ECONOMY

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HORIZON

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REALITY

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Alternative urbanism’s and Cairo’s

“garbage city” Dustin Valen

Home to the Middle East’s largest economy and almost 20 million people, waste and waste management are pressing issues for the city of Cairo.

Located on the outskirts of the city, hemmed in by the cliffs of Mokattam Hill to the south, a Coptic Christian community of 40,000 people is vital to the successful management of the city’s waste. The Zabbaleen - a name that translates literally into “garbage people” collect trash from the city’s inhabitants,

bringing back b b k on a daily d basis b some 4,000 tons of trash to their neighborhood where it is sorted openly on the streets and stored inside their own homes.

Meticulously sorted by hand, plastics, metals, paper and fabric are each processed by small machinery into raw materials for export to manufacturing economies. Astonishingly, upwards of 85% of waste collected by the Zabbaleen is reprocessed into raw materials. With organic matter comprising an additional

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“The degree to which waste saturates and characterizes the urban experience in Mokattam flies in the face of modernism; in Garbage City, the production and management of waste is explicit and a jarring reminder of our own, Western sensibilities.”

10% used for animal feed and the production of bio-gas for home cooking, as little as 5% of the waste collected is delivered to government facilities for incineration and landfill disposal.

To the Zabbaleen, waste is at once a resource, a source of employment and livelihood. A single household mulching, washing and drying hard plastics can process upwards of a ton of raw material in a single day. Known informally as “Garbage City,” the streets of

Mokattam are lined with piles of trash while men, women and children openly sort through rubbish to get at valuable, re-useable materials. Waste piles up in homes and spills out of doors; it shares space with children who play, butchers who slaughter, and men who converse over tea. A traffic of trucks, mules and people is relentless.

The degree to which waste saturates and characterizes the urban

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experience in Mokattam lies in the face of modernism; in Garbage City, the production and management of waste is explicit and a jarring reminder of our own, Western sensibilities.

Cairo’s example is, of course, an exception and not the rule; the experience of most contemporary, Western cities today makes it difficult to imagine the immediacy that once existed between cities and their waste. Writing about English towns prior to 19th century reforms, sociologist Martin O’brien describes with enchanting prose how “excrement, bones, fish waste, feathers, metal and fibrous industrial discards, and effluents, worn out items of every kind, household dust and debris, dead dogs: you name it and out of the door or window it went.”1 “So pervasive was the stink of excrement, rotting carcasses and offal,” he notes, that the Tudor practice was often to apply “secretions of musk deer, civet cat [tom-cat spray], Russian beaver, or ambergris… a putrefying emanation of dead whales” as a countermeasure to improve the urban, olfactory experience.1 As fantastic as his description might seem, it is important to remember that it was not until fairly recent history that cities acquired their distinctive, sanitary sheen. In her history of the scavenging, re-use and recycling economies that existed in American cities at the beginning of the 20th century, historian Susan Strasser argues that “households and cities have since become open systems rather than closed ones Just as the table scraps once

fed chickens and Dad’s torn trousers provided the material for Junior’s new ones, so cities, too, were once systems that incorporated ragpickers and scavengers to process the detritus of others.2

“Just as the table scraps once fed chickens and Dad’s torn trousers provided the material for Junior’s new ones, so cities, too, were once systems that incorporated ragpickers and scavengers to process the detritus of others.”

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Describing the complex socio-economic structures by which food scraps were re-used as cooking fuel and animal feed, grease and bones turned into soap and candles, rags and clothing used for paper manufacturer, sewing, rug making, patchwork quilting, and later, for resale by charities, Strasser’s history is a timely reminder of the social and economic importance that scavenging and reuse once played in the management of urban waste; so much so that urban piles of trash were not only commonplace but even regarded as essential and valuable despite the sights and smells they imparted. According to Strasser, it was not until concerns over public health, sanitation and the beautification of the

urban experience drove cities to forcibly take control of refuse collection and its disposal that it became “easier to throw things out,” while the sophisticated equipment used to manage waste promoted “the notion among citizens that refuse was a technical concern, the province of experts.”2 But why, as designers, should we be concerned with the city’s historical relationship to garbage? For starters, it is high time we recognized that waste cannot be made to disappear; that it is a fact of life, both ancient and modern. Which is not to say that waste is, in and of itself, problematic; rather, it is the concentration of wasteful activity in dense, urban settings that lends to

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Few individuals cared what became of the waste after it had been discarded.”3 With the world’s urban population set to increase by 72%, or 6.3 billion people, by 2050, the impetus to reimagine the modern city as a sustainable environment has reached a high pitch of enthusiasm.4 At the same time, alternatives to the modern, divided city enabled by new technologies that permit industrial processes to move in from the periphery may rival the importance of commuting infrastructures whose layout has dominated the design of cities for almost a century. Consenting to the safe co-existence of productive building types, housing, and even agriculture in urban environments, numerous problems resulting from modern town planning are able to be addressed: net-zero carbon economies, crowded commuting infrastructures, energy networks, food security, liveability and even the diversification of the urban experience itself are all topics that have a stake in reimagining the modern city and its principles. Unspoken, however, is the fact that many of these productive processes, not to mention the huge numbers of people they are imagined to support, produce enormous amounts of waste that will, according to forecasts, become increasingly concentrated in urban areas: garbage, dust, compost, offal, excrement - the whole gamut of undesirable end products are inextricably bound to the productive processes that engender prosperity, sustenance and culture. In an age demarcated by rising rates of waste

waste its crisis dimension. In other words, and as garbage historian Martin Melosi has observed: waste is primarily an “urban blight.”3 Finding that “industrial cities paid a high price for their rapid population growth and economic dynamism,” Melosi lists as some of their endearing characteristics: “crowded tenement districts, chronic health problems, billowing smoke, polluted waterways, traffic congestion, unbearable noise, and mounds of putrefying garbage.”3 As a consequence of the expansion of 19th century industrial cities, the problem of waste and its management was taken up by a technocratic regime of sanitary engineers whose adequacy, even today, can be measured precisely by the extent of their own furtiveness. With the arrival of modern town planning and sanitation reform a wholly new attitude towards waste was also born, one that sought to eliminate waste by removing it from cities, as well as from the sight and minds of its inhabitants. “When waste was removed from the range of human senses,” Melosi writes, “it ceased to be an eyesore, a bad odor, an obstacle to traffic, or a bothersome annoyance.

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production, hugely efficient manufacturing and rapid obsolescence, it is significant that the question of waste is beginning to exit the realm of the technical and reappear in conversations about sustainable societies and their futures. While architects and designers are quick to champion the sustainable ethos, questions have yet to be raised as to the complicity of contemporary design practice and technologically deterministic modes of waste management.

Inescapably, our resolve to bury, drown, incinerate or otherwise put trash out of sight is a reflection of the idealism at the heart of the modernism and its hygienic representation of the city.

“With the modern city under pressure to adapt to contemporary sensibilities, it is absolutely necessary to revisit at the same time our implicit attitude towards waste and its late 19th century origins.”

Paul Overy has showed how modernist buildings of the inter-war period, “with their crisp orthogonal while walls” and “scintillating panes of glass,” were a “brilliant and visually stunning exploitation of the imagery of hygiene and health, light, fresh air and openness.”5 From Ebenezer Howard and Tony Garnier, to Le Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright, Overy’s remarks are equally true of modernist projects for the city that, by employing the rhetoric of hygiene, sanitary reform and calling for the elimination of waste, gave credence to that paradigmatic dictum: “out of sight, out of mind.” With the modern city under pressure to adapt to contemporary sensibilities, it is absolutely necessary to revisit at the same time our implicit attitude towards waste and its late 19th century origins.

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modes of representation and a learned devotion to cleanliness, it is with a critical eye that we should view recent landscape and building projects that seek to reintegrate waste processes with the city and its public. Despite compelling opportunities to break with recent history and modernist moods, landďŹ lls reclaimed as urban parks and waste-to-energy plants decorated with ski slopes are evidence of a latent modern desire to deny waste by aestheticizing its experience. As shifting modes of production speed alternatives to the modern,

divided city, what new modes of representation and design might embody a new attitude towards waste and foster its reintegration with the urban experience? Short of returning to the preindustrial city and its attendant sights and smells, anticipating the future of waste management as a sustainable practice will in part depend on the closer examination of historical and contemporary examples of reuse practices and the relationship they bear to architecture and the city.

While Cairo’s is a stunning example of an urbanism that renders cultural attitudes towards waste visible, this research endeavors to ask a series of questions of architects and designers and provoke their ongoing investigation: What role does architecture and the city play in inuencing and rendering visible cultural attitudes towards waste?

What new urbanisms might result from its reintegration with the waste stream?

What new attitudes towards waste might emerge from its renewed synthesis with architecture and urbanism?

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Works Cited 1Martin O’Brien, A Crisis of Waste?: Understanding the Rubbish Society (New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2008), 15-16.

2Susan Strasser, Waste and want: A social history of trash (New York, N.Y.: Holt, 1999), 14-113.

3Martin V. Melosi, Garbage in the Cities: Refuse, Reform, and the Environment, 2nd ed.

(Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005), 1-227.

4United Nations Economic and Social Affairs, World Urbanization Prospects The 2011 Revision: Highlights (New York: UNESA), 3.

5Paul Overy, Light, Air and Openness: Modern architecture between the wars (London, U.K.: Thames & Hudson, 2007), 217.

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Finlandia Alvar Aalto 25

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Method to this Madness Emily Mohr Initially focused on the documentation of the desks of Knowlton Hall and their dwellers, this set of photos eventually evolved into having the singular purpose of capturing the most cluttered, most disastrous desks existing in Knowlton Hall. The resulting images, which at first glance may appear to be simply garbage, display the intricate collages of materials and possessions students choose to leave unattended, waiting for them while they catch a few hours of sleep each night. These photos capture desks as they appear in the early morning hours during the chaotic final weeks of studio. Most photos, displaying piles of models, trace paper and trash, contrast the minority of manicured desks; ultimately, the desk’s condition is telling of its owner’s nature.

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Fabrizio Furiassi When the artist Edi Rama became mayor of Albania’s troubled capital Tirana, in 2000, he immediately set upon a controversial project: requalifying the city by re-painting its decaying buildings in a tumultuous array of colors and patterns. It was an aesthetic and political act that prompted social transformation. It was possible without a substantial mutation of the architecture, of its form or function, through the symbolic visualization of signs of change. Rama directed the operation to stimulate the consciousness of citizens and to revitalize their approach to the city.

In the same way, “Unstable Tirana” is a visionary proposal that uses architecture as a means to promote a social change, this time through a “malleable” architecture. The project focuses on the design of a new intermodal train station: a public space for transportation, a social center capable to supply a variable range of functions and spaces in accordance with the citizens’ necessities and opinions, as a chance to re-appropriate their city. In accordance with this analysis, the new Tirana station will be composed of two parts: stable (infrastructure) and unstable (equipment). These two parts are made from constructive elements that can be combined with dry construction processes. Infinite configurations are possible: the building can move, Images: Fabrizio Furiassi 37

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expand or shrink in unexpected ways. In this way the architecture can adapt itself to the user’s desires, and physically react to different situations:. It can change according to the climate, the season or the community’s needs, including cases of spontaneous manifestations or unpredictable natural events. The building, free from perimeters, is really truly open to the city and its flows, without any difference between interior and exterior, public and private or functional specialization. In this condition the station is no longer the device through which the net works, but vice versa is the net itself that enables the station to work. For this reason the two images provided are different and diametrically opposed: the first indeed is the representation of a “switched on” station, 38

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full of people and dynamic flows; while the second represents a “switched off ” station, ready to be decommissioned. This dualism intends to evoke the principle whereby the architecture should be made of people, by people and for people only. In other words, the “Unstable Tirana” proposal is about an architecture that is able to flex itself in order to meet the people’s requirements, transforming its structure and tasks. The concept is that of a mutant architecture, in continuous evolution. It is an architecture always modifiable in its formal or functional aspects and capable of direct response to contingent circumstances: an “open source” architecture that uses the traffic analysis in order to change its activity in real-time, thus optimizing usability and circulation.

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The emergent technologies of the Internet and the GPS tracking system forabilities of the smartphone are the tools used to manage the process, which, through the anonymous monitoring of people and vehicle flows, obtain quantitative values regarding the scope and the direction of movements at the urban scale. Users, contribute to the mechanism by downloading data, sharing feedback and imparting suggestions or preferences. In so doing, they work directly on the configuration of a reality most congenial to them, which is expressed through shared transformations.

“In this way, the project seems to prefigure an architecture that though dense, is less invasive and more lightweight than the conventional.

It suggests an efficient and fast device that responds to the constant changes of society. It thereby proposes a way to put public interests at the top of the agenda in a city where, historically, political and private profits

In these terms, the project aims not only to envision a new railway station, but to provide a hypothetical model for the future development of the entire Tirana, as a new contemporary city.

At the 12th Venice Biennale, Andrea Branzi (Archizoom Associati) presented The New Athens Charter, a list of ten suggestions for reading and interpreting conditions of the contemporary city, overcome by financial, communications, goods, and people flows. Branzi recommends that we consider the city a “high-tech favela, without rigid and definitive solutions, made by reversible, incomplete and transformable devices [...] a living plankton”. In the ultimate case of transformation, this kind of architecture should be ready to reverse itself and eventually disappear. This ability engenders a coherent logic for

prevailed.”

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In the ultimate case of transformation, this kind of architecture should be ready to reverse itself and eventually disappear. This ability engenders a coherent logic for a sustainable future, both in economical, social, and environmental terms.

Disused constructions should be readily removed and their material reused for other buildings. Moreover, when appropriate, it should be possible to restore the natural landscape that preceded the architecture, against the over-construction occurring at the global scale.

In this way, the project seems to preďŹ gure an architecture that though dense, is less invasive and more lightweight than the conventional. It suggests an efďŹ cient and fast device that responds to the constant changes of society. It thereby proposes a way to put public interests at the top of the agenda in a city where, historically, political and private proďŹ ts prevailed.

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Words and phrases I would like to use/hear less often in conversation with architects: urbanism, “the city”, exurban, suburban, tactical, flows, infrastructure, management, “body-politic”, “everything is art”, “nothing is art”, modernism, postmodernism, “functionalist aesthetic”, -isms (handle with care), post- (handle with care), nature, “the natural”, landform, anthropogenic geomorphology, working metaphor, Bjarke Ingels, Charles Waldheim, ArchDaily, utilize, ecology, sustainability, solar angles, failure, hate, wrong, “wrong”, right, correct, death, static, singular

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Words and phrases I would like to use/hear more often in conversation with architects: architecture, building, project, drawing, elevation, plan, section, wall, floor, stair, time, form, surface, ground, vernacular, (new)formalism, (new) -isms (handle with care), phenomenology, Neo-Dada, Minimalism, Expressionism, affect, narrative, object, art, artful, discourse, counter-intuitive, details, life, love, like, good, amazing, everything, anything, polyphony, multiple, mysterious, wonder

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Work something like this in: “We have no further use for the functional, the beautiful, or for whether or not something is true. We have only time for conversation. The Lord help us say something in reply that doesn’t simply echo what our ears took in.” (John Cage)

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And this: “I am trying to check my habits of seeing to counter them for the sake of greater freshness. I am trying to be unfamiliar with what I’m doing.”

(Robert Rauschenberg)

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I think I may stop looking for an answer all together. What’s the point, really? It seems the moment I think I know something is the exact moment it becomes dated and – God forbid – boring. A great deal of the discourse’s thought and writing (the contents of this magazine not to be excluded) seems to be interested in finding definitions, knowledge, or absolute truths as a product of an analysis that says much but suggests very little to those who intend on making things. I reject this practice as an altogether pedantic faux-intellectualism that leads to nothing but inactivity, self-deprecation, and wasted time.

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I prefer honesty and mystery to truth and knowledge. (If I know more about something after thinking about it, I have failed at what I set out to do.)

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. Questions to ask myself in the morning: Am I a scientist?

Am I an engineer?

Am I a sculptor?

Am I a hair dresser?

Am I an artist?

Am I a writer?

Am I an event planner?

Am I a composer?

Am I an architect?

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What do I make? Images? Or buildings? Or representations of buildings?

Or screenplays? Or soundtracks? And how do I make? With my hands? My head? By drawing, dancing, and writing? By hanging the door on its hinges?

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It is a matter, then, of a reevaluation what we’re dealing with. (If we are to move forward, significant work must be done to update our palettes.)

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I would like to thank: Thom Yorke, John Coltrane, Leonard Bernstein, John Cage, Robert Rauschenberg, Stanley Kubrick, Peter Eisenman, Jeff Kipnis, Michael Meredith and Hillary Sample, Steve Reich, Philip Glass, Charles Moore, Knowlton Hall, John Hejduk, Rob Livesey, Rem Koolhaas, Albert Einstein, Kurt Vonnegut, Goethe, Stan Allen, Ernest Hemmingway, Igor Stravinsky, Tyler Kvochick and Matt Johnson, God, The Ohio Union, Alvar Aalto, and Louis Kahn.

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What do they pay attention to? What do we pay attention to? (How someone reads this is just as important as what is being read.)

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I am interested in how new methods of making can conjure up different modes of feeling and understanding.

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We have no further use for the compositional, the practical, the semiotic, the autonomous, or for whether or not something is (true/ legible/ informed/ ironic). We have only time for making impressions. The Lord help us create something that doesn’t simply end when we walk out the door.

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I am trying to change my way of doing to change our ways of (seeing/ hearing/ listening/ reading/ breathing/ walking/ watching/ talking) the things we are familiar with for the sake of a greater freshness.

. Ten Canonical Somethings I. Amiens II. Seattle Library III. The Rite of Spring IV. Django V. the Basterds VI. Laban Dance VII. It’s Gonna Rain VIII. ball-and-chain-play-toys IX. 2001 X. the Familian House

. Architectural affects . Polyphonic instances . Magic tricks

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Architecture of Scandanavia

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Säynatsalo Town Hall Alvar Aalto 47

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Farmview

Aerial Perspectives on Indian framing types

Matt Johnson Indian farming types have emerged along the Ganges River as records of geographical, hydrological, topographical, geological, and political forces. These types, when viewed from an aerial perspective, reveal the record of the underlying structures that construct the landscape. Mandalas - or Yantra’s in the Hindu culture - are geometric patterns of platonic shapes thought to reveal cosmic truths and are devices for the exploration of one’s self. Extracting this same method of patterning, I manipulated aerial images of Ganges River farming practices to reveal organizational structures within the landscape.

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The City The plots based on political boundaries that deďŹ ne a gridded type which conforms to a central city.

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The Mountain Topographical and geologic conditions force this type to terrace along contours.

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Fanning A hydrological condition contorted by political boundaries justiďŹ es to sloping hillsides.

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Grids Hydrological conditions deďŹ ne settlements while political forces have structured movement.

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Puzzles & Pies The haphazard collection of water on the lower delta produces pieces accumulating around the high ground.

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Riverlands Plots adhere to the river’s jog and jive as settlement clears the ood plane.

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son r e P d Secon ture: ec Archit

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Images: Front: Emily Mohr Other Images: Jeff Anderson, Justin Rubin 61

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You find yourself walking on a sidewalk just like any other sidewalk you have ever walked on. A rough stone retaining wall to your right holds back the soil of a grove slightly higher than your head. To your left, across the street is some sort of suburb which is quite uninteresting despite being attractive and charming. It is difficult to look at for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that the sun, hitting your face in a pleasing way, is coming from the same direction. You approach a void in the wall and as your reach the corner, you notice the retaining wall continues to the right, though in a different material. The stone is no longer rough but is dark and cut smoothly into standardized panels. Distracted by a modest, though handsome fountain cut into the expansive wall, you barely notice as you turn the corner and step from light into darkness, from the warm, light-grey, concrete sidewalk into a dark stone threshold in the shadow cast by the tress now above you1. The end of the threshold is bathed in light and you feel inclined to go towards it. So you do.

As you walk towards the light, the space between the retaining walls widens and the walls slowly recede into the ground. By the time you get to the end of the threshold, you have grown. The light at the end of the tunnel comes into focus as you near the end of the threshold passing through the grove. Gentle winds blow over rolling, vibrant, green hills bracketed on the left by a forest and on the right by a hill with a circle of large, older trees on top. The rolling hills are so perfectly framed and meet the sky so softly that they seem to continue on forever over the horizon2. You see a gust of wind blowing across the field towards you and anticipate its touch.

You stand still in the shadow of the trees behind you and the gust, having passed over the sunbathed fields, hits with a mix of warm 62

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and cool air. It doesn’t feel unpleasant but it sends a shiver running up your spine. You are fascinated by several follies on the landscape including a cross, a grid of columns, and a square building. You desire to frolic in the fields with the follies but yet, they seem sacred, somehow. Standing in the shade and looking at the landscape bathed in light you are compelled to move forward again and a path presents itself before you. It leads off to the right and up the hill. You follow it.

You can’t take your eyes off the field and the follies that seem to dance upon it as the rolling hills shift in perspective while you follow the path to the large hill. The gravel of the path crunches pleasantly under your feet and the sun kisses your right cheek. As the path rounds towards the hill you see, much to your disappointment, an imposing stairway leading up to the top of the hill3. The arduous journey ahead of you contrasts sharply with the peace you felt when looking upon the field, but still, you go on.

You realize the steps have gotten shallower as you arrive at the top of the hill, easing your journey, but a bead of sweat has formed on your brow nonetheless. A square of tall trees surrounds a circular plaza set into the earth. In the center of the plaza is what remains of a fire, perhaps a sacrifice, having already been burnt, beyond which a few hushed people stand about solemnly. You walk across the plaza and look through the trees. Where on the left side of the hill you saw immaculate green fields rolling along to the horizon, on the right side you see fields of graves stretching as far as you can see. You are among mourners, intruding on the pain of someone else’s loss.

You move away from the mourners and look back towards paradise, the Elysian Fields, a place for angels and 63

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ghosts, dreams and memories. Nestled hauntingly within are a cross, a portico, and a funerary complex. At the edge of the plaza you see that the path continues onward, impossibly long, cutting down the side of the hill, through an empty meadow and piercing into a flat wall of trees4. At the end of the path is an object shining like a jewel in the sun. You step off of the plaza and find the path under your feet. To your great relief you find not a staircase as on the other side of the hill but a gentle slope which carries you all the way to the end of the path. Again, the pleasant crunch of the gravel under your feet joins you as you are carried effortlessly down the hill almost as if you are floating. You are fixed on the object at the end of the path. So clear and easy is your movement that you feel as if you are almost there already.

Something draws your attention to your feet. Perhaps the gravel got coarser or a mixture with dirt caused your feet to slip or the grade changed very slightly or perhaps the slope bottomed out subtly. Regardless, you look down for one moment to watch your step and when you look up everything is gone. You cease to float. You feel your weight pushing down onto the gravel beneath your feet and you feel the earth pushing back against you as you skid slightly to a halt. All you can see before you is another stairway, uncompromising and imposing5. The path, the object at its terminus, the wall of trees, and the meadow are all gone. You are shocked. The stair was so insignificant from the top of the hill, and the path through the wall of trees so enthralling, it was unseen until it stood before you, as a wall impeding your journey. What a great tragedy for the mourners, you think. A path full of wonder and excitement suddenly and without warning cut short, the path is the life of the recently dead that they have come 66

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to mourn, or perhaps a warning about the impotence of mourning at all. You look back to the top of the hill and see mourners beginning to walk to after you6. Maybe they won’t even notice it, but you can’t bear to see their reaction when they arrive at the stair. You hurry along.

Thankfully the path and the wall of trees are still there when you reach the top of the stairs. The object, a chapel, has come into focus. Perhaps that is where the mourners are going.

Perhaps a life worth mourning rests there. You pay more attention to the path as you continue on, not wanting to be startled again. You arrive at the flat wall of trees, the edge of a forest which now appears gaunt and imposing as the trees tower over you. The path has flattened out and the chapel seems to have receded to an impossible distance7. You step in.

As you walk briskly among the trees, trying to stay ahead of the mourners, you realize that you have stepped into a graveyard and are presently alone among the dead. The space between every tree is filled with the graves of strangers.

Again, you are in a tunnel cast in shadow with a light at the end, cast from the sun reflecting brilliantly back at you from the whiteness of the chapel. In the darkness with the dead, you cannot move quickly enough to arrive at the chapel, but it seems further away every time you look up. The path is intersected by three roads, the interval between intersections doubling each time, every time extending the duration of your journey. You feel as though you will never reach your goal, you consider turning off of the path but you don’t. As the trees get thicker and the path grows darker, you find that the path has narrowed and has begun to sink subtly into the ground8.

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7 Top of the Evil Stair

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the distance of the distant chapel even further. The graves to either side of you rise up. Where, at the entrance to the cemetery, you grew with relief, now you shrink in despair.

You are exhausted but you have finally pierced through the forest. Before you, the chapel sits quietly. Across a bridge, the monumental axis nails the portico and a massive door9. You look back to see the great journey you have just completed. With the view collapsed in perspective, it doesn’t seem as far, but you know your perception deceives you10. You turn back to the grand, white, immaculate Corinthian temple front, behind which lies the beige walls of the chapel, slightly worn11. As you cross the bridge you see the blank wall of the chapel regarding you, quietly and austerely. The plain beige surface hits the ground with no base as if it continues into the underworld. The chapel is not placed on a plinth removed of the forces of nature, as with a traditional temple, but sits in the ground subject to the harshness of reality, inevitably bound to decay and fall into ruin. As you enter the shade of the portico you see that it is disengaged from the chapel at a slight angle12. So nearly touching but so clearly separated are they that you can’t help but wonder what is on the fourth side of the portico; something you know no one will ever see. The sun passes through the wedge between the chapel and the portico slashing a strip of light violently across the entrance to the chapel.

The door is locked and more than that, perhaps too massive to ever be opened. This entrance is not for you; it is a giant’s door. You think back, with humor, at how you shrunk along the path as you search for another entrance. To the right around the corner of the chapel you find an unceremonious, but appropriately scaled void in a blank wall, decorated only by ruin. You enter to find another massive door hidden inside the threshold. This one contains a peephole. You peer through the 70

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cloudy, miniscule oculus and, though you can’t see much, you can make out a miniature temple within, not unlike the disengaged portico through which you just passed. You step back and notice a small door to your left. You enter.

The door leads into a small vestibule which navigates you around the massive door with the peephole. You pass through an identical door on the opposite side and you are in the chapel.

Having entered perpendicular to the axis of the chapel, the ďŹ rst glance you give the dead is casual and disrespectful. Your realization that you are facing a room with a corpse awaiting mourning is quite sudden as you were simple seeking to reorient yourself. The miniature portico sits separate from the altar on which the dead lies, the chapel is the body and the portico is the temple13. The massive axis from the grove of trees is perpendicular to the primary axis of the chapel, disengaging the hierarchy of the dead on the altar from the power of the procession and making this space for death a personal experience for those visiting, not a monumental occasion that links all those in the cemetery. There is nothing special about the death of this person except to those who mourn within this space.

Looking more closely at the walls, you see a window pleasantly throwing light onto the corpse, but disengaged from any axis, as if placed randomly. Pilasters disappear at the corners, continuing on past the walls, to where, you do not know14. A sliver of light illuminates the ceiling as the roof is disengaged from the walls. You get the sense that this is simply a temporary pavilion erected only for this day, yet the walls are cracked with age. You go to touch them and are shocked by their smoothness15. Somehow you cannot feel the cracks in the paint; they are simply cosmetic, cracked and then glossed over; the interior 71

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an illusion of age and decay while the exterior faces their reality.

Someone pushes on the massive doors as you did, but they don’t budge. The mourners have arrived at the end of the axis and you rush to exit before they ďŹ nd the other door. You turn back and look one more time at the interior and wonder if the walls are even square before you turn to exit.

You pass, as you did before, around the door for the dead that will never open, through the vestibule, and out the blank wall.

You exit to a verdant plinth raised up to the height of a man with a path cutting through, dividing it into four, on top of which lie plots of graves. You feel no further need to explore; there is no one here for you to mourn.

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On Iannis Xenakis – a not so deep but

mostly surface-(y) look into the percussive compositions of a creator through the eyes of someone who has always come to his work as a composer of contemporary music and not architecture.

It’s hard to describe, really.

Filled with process and yet somehow beautifully narrative and expressive.

Things you wouldn’t necessarily describe.

Maybe that is why, since he began as a composer throughout his career, no one really wanted to teach him – with the exception of the wonderful Olivier Messiaen, who was regarded poorly from by the Darmsdadt composers of the time anyway and therefore really had nothing to lose by taking on Xenakis as a student.

The works that interest me the most come later on in his compositional career ~~~ after all of the really intense graphic scores and mostly only involving only a few percussionists and not the full orchestra (though he did continue to write larger works up until his death).

The first solo percussion work, Psappha (1975) is still quite “out” – using an atypical notation system based on an equal division of constant time (therefore there are no “downbeats” since because there are no “measures” only a constant recurring division of time in which events happen). Though the piece is predated by some of his most famous works (much like “Metastasis” (1954) – his first major work for orchestra which predates Ligeti’s “Atmospheres” (1961) - which somehow seems to take all the credit for large clusters of strings and glissandi though it came half a decade later) “Psappha” is possibly the first work of it’s kind. A work for solo percussion (in groups of metal wood and skin instruments all of which are struck (by one performer) with a series of different sticks and some with a foot pedal) that is specifically notated from beginning to end (this fact may seem arbitrary but the most important works for solo percussion before this time were all written with some kind of experimental notation which did not specify either order of sounds or how the sounds should be played in general – without rhythms)

SO WHY DOES THIS REALLY MATTER?

Impact It also seems to have unbelievable narrative in the sense that it is constantly going somewhere but no listener is quite sure where.

Listen to the first few seconds of Psappha – you’ll be hooked – it’s an incredible exposition – as if you’ve joined a journey that had already begun and now you’re on board – you can’t go back.

Persaphassa (1969) is for 6 percussionists performing “in the round” with the audience in the center of all 6 performers. It’s yet another work with unbelievable exposition material. 2 waves make their way to shore and soon the story of our “bongo” protagonist begins.

I bring up narrative again – THIS MUSIC SOUNDS LIKE

GREEK MYTHOLOGY Are you with me? – Xenakis was Greek – though more of a French artist (based on influence) but what the hell, let’s go with the “his roots were Greek thing” since it supports this thought.

Okay so now we are looking at Xenakis’ music (specifically that of his music for drums) as some kind of overwhelming Greek drama – specifically one about war (this is also important because Xenakis served in the military (well, the resistance) and wouldn’t easily forget it since: it left him with a wound that paralyzed half of his face for the rest of his lifetime)

So yes let’s get back to this “Greek war” narrative that now seems so poignant.

Let’s look at two parts of Peaux from his larger work Pleadies (1979)

[By the way you should get on Spotify and cue up all these tracks if you are really interested because you have to hear all of these pieces simply because they are awesome – also I hope that you can avoid the commercials on Spotify either because you have paid for it or because you get lucky since those commercials really kill any creative mood you may be in] Peaux is for 6 percussionists (like persaphassa) and begins like this: [This is where you start listening and I stop explaining]

So you’ve listened to the first 40 seconds or so and you’re probably on board (at least partly) in a kind of “what the fuck is going on here” kind of way. (I’m telling you this man knows how to write a good exposition) Now, do me a favor and fast forward to like the 8 minute mark – that is if you don’t find yourself wanting to just continue listening and actually hear the narrative develop because in a way I’m giving you a real big SPOILER ALERT.

8 minutes in – complete hell has broken loose. Imagine you’re watching Braveheart and this is basically the final battle scene where everyone is yelling and hacking at each other (except I find this more compelling for my own reasons). NOW finish the

piece out.

[You’re listening]

A fairly eerie confusing kind of code ending after all the brutal shit earlier.

And what does that mean - good question – not sure – but here’s the kicker

All of this music is based on PROCESS – extremely predetermined by numbers and graphs but somehow unbelievably human. It’s beautiful really.

Maybe you’re thinking “this guy is full of shit and this isn’t narrative at all this is just a bunch of drum sounds and whatever sounds process like I hate it let’s put on Justin bieber and forget about it” But that’s okay – I only have one more bit to talk about and then we’re done (assuming you haven’t stopped reading already)

So let me see if I can keep you on board to talk about one last work from very late in Xenakis’ life – Rebonds (1989) Actually let’s just look at Rebonds A – a gradual intensification of sound over time that essentially implodes. A very particular and systematized densification of sound too; but still – in an all too narrative sense – the building tumbles. Too much is stacked into a too little amount of time and finally it all gives way. Is this musical architecture? It isn’t cost effective to have this narrative architecturally but musically it works out.

Let’s call it both.

OR Let’s go back to the Greek narrative idea. MAYBE our protagonist is just given too much to handle and is forced to give up. So he/she falls - gets up - tries again (if you’re still listening to things on spotify you might be able to hear what I’m talking about – this is around the 5 minute mark) and then – falls, yet again

Either option makes some sense of all of this hitting, banging, and beating – and I’m sure there are other ways to read this as well [if you’ve been in any way interested in this and possibly had never heard this music before and have any thoughts you should email me at matt_evans@ mail.com and we can continue further conversation [yes it’s mail.com and not gmail for reasons I will not go into].

So There we go – we’ve essentially touched upon nearly all of Xenakis’ compositional output for what I will simply call ‘drums.’ Works each with exceptional power and narrative yet conceived through process and numerology.

Creations that appear human though are not conceptually humanist.

Works that are powerful within structure.

Thoughts from Matt Evans

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Concrete & Celluloid: Building a Dream from Reel to Real “Architecture, requires one to be mobile in order to traverse and experience it. Film offers the same experience to the immobile viewer; moving across an imaginary path through space and time.�

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“Recently, architecture has become preoccupied with image making that offers little meaning-more concerned with one-upping the last flashy tower than creating a space or experience.

All the while film has managed to balance image with meaning. Architects and directors both start with the same thing; a blank sheet of paper. Designing for the reel and the real means giving actors control over their surroundings.”

Architecture and film: one, the art of the static and concrete, the other, the art of the dynamic and fantastical. Both architecture and film share elements of narrative storytelling. Recently, architecture has become preoccupied with image making that offers little meaning-more concerned with one-upping the last flashy tower than creating a space or experience. All the while film has managed to balance image with meaning. Architects and directors both start with the same thing; a blank sheet of paper. Designing for the reel and the real means giving actors control over their surroundings. In order to tell a good story, whether for screen or city, a proper backdrop is needed.

Architecture and cinema experienced symbiotic growth at the turn of the century, and so the experience of watching movies has evolved with our ideas of the modern city.

Architecture is the backdrop and medium through which film works. A visit to the cinema is a part of the architectural promenade of the city. The lights, smells, and sensations cue your mind into a suspension of disbelief. All of this is part of the journey to fantasy; the entire act of viewing a film is meant to take you further from the mundane and into the extraordinary.

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In order for cinema to exist, it needs to be housed in architecture. The “movie house” or “movie palace”, most often found in the city center, became a place of modern public worship; a “secular church devoted to the cult of images: fleeting projections of light on an elusive surface.”[1] Shrines to celluloid fantasy, movie houses were once beautiful, highly ornamented destinations; their elegant splendor a reflection of early cinema’s attraction for the “superficial” experiences. In the same way a stylish car is used to tour the city, so were the lavish cinemas of old used to tour the city on screen. The city streets lead audiences to the movie house. Once inside, the film leads audiences back to the city streets; the city itself is housed in the cinema. Ironically, as films themselves have developed into bombastic thrill rides filled with stupendous special effects, the theaters they are presented in have been diminished to the forgettable banality of a carpeted warehouse with chairs in it. Like the painting in the attic, the more beefed up the movie spectacle, the more the architectural spectacle fades.

Film defined itself as an architectural practice with the early, turn of the century travel genre movies. These panoramas of famous locales, a product of the age of travel, laid the groundwork for later fiction films and the city as fiction.

They transported audiences to far-flung locales with vistas of foreign lands. One of the first cinema attractions to draw in audiences was “Hale’s Tours and Scenes of the World”.

First shown in 1905, these films were illusion rides in which “passengers” boarded a stationary train car inside a theater room.

“Films give architecture the power to do the otherwise impossible. Whether that means physically impossible sets and locations, the re-creation of past locales, or the perceived inhabitation of imaginary buildings.”

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A film screen, disguised as a window at the front of the car, displayed a movie shot from the viewpoint of a rail car, automobile, boat, or even balloon.[2] The movement of the vehicle was simulated in the theater seats, giving the impression of motion and recreating the visual and physical experience of travel.[3] Hale’s Tours were the proto-versions of modern motion simulator rides like Walt Disney World’s Star Tours, Soarin’ Over California, and Universal Studios’ Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey.

Architecture, for the most part, requires one to be mobile in order to traverse and experience it. Film offers the same experience to the immobile viewer; moving across an imaginary path through space and time. René Clair, an early filmmaker of the city travel genre proclaimed: “The art that is closest to cinema is architecture.”[4] Le Corbusier would echo this sentiment later in 1923 through his articulation of architectural promenade, stating that “Architecture and film are the only two arts of our time.” This connection was prefigured by the sequence of arrival at great English garden estates, and earlier still by the procession along the Panathenaic Way toward the Acropolis. But understanding architecture vis-à-vis film allows one to create a more dynamic experience of a building. As Corb put it, architecture “is appreciated while on the move, with one’s feet … while walking, moving from one place to another …

“Film defined itself as an architectural practice with the early, turn of the century travel genre movies. These panoramas of famous locales, a product of the age of travel, laid the groundwork for later fiction films and the city as fiction. They transported audiences to farflung locales with vistas of foreign land.”

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A true architectural promenade [offers] constantly changing views, unexpected, at times surprising.”[5] For an example of good storytelling in building, KSA students don’t have to go far. Knowlton Hall’s major feature is its ramping “pathway to knowledge”, and the building isn’t shy about the fact that it’s basically a set. Here in Knowlton, you are both the actor on stage, and the production designer filling this empty set with wonderful creations.

Florida is home to another building that acts as a set, but does its best to hide the fact. As you enter the gates of Walt Disney World, you’re greeted by a small, oft-overlooked plaque which sets the tone for the rest of the experience.

It reads, “Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy.” Walt Disney World goes to great lengths to craft and maintain the illusion for its guests. The employees at Disney World are called “cast members” and they know that once they are out in the park, they are “on stage”.

Much of Disney World’s dreamlike curiosity is created through careful manipulation of architectural effects along with movie set-building tricks. The buildings are built with forced perspective to appear taller than they actually are.

Most of Disney World is little more than a decorated shed, but the “shed” is always tidily tucked just out of view. The entire Magic Kingdom itself is actually one giant building; which you experience mostly from the roof. According to legend, Walt was bothered by the jarring sight of a cowboy walking through Disneyland’s Tomorrowland en route to Frontierland. He decided there should be a way for cast members to get around the park while remaining “off-stage”. When Disney World in Florida was designed, a network of utility corridors, or “utilidors”, were planned to keep park operations out of sight. Because of Florida’s high water table, these aren’t tunnels at all; they are the first floor. Thus, when you enter the park as a guest, you’re on the second floor. The grade change is so gradual that you never notice it. Fantasyland is actually one story higher, the third floor, which makes Cinderella’s Castle that is much 87

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“Here in Knowlton, you are both the actor on stage, and the production designer filling this empty set with wonderful creations.” more impressive from afar. At Walt Disney World, each decoration, animatronic, and prop is designed to make the fantasy seem that much more tangible. For proof of film’s influences on architecture today, one has to look no further than the latest Dwell. Over-large rooms with needlessly high ceilings are surely the result of movies shot in spacious sets and houses that better accommodate the film crew and equipment. Even the technique of “staging a house” for sale (or a photo shoot for Dwell...) is indebted to the mise en scène of film production. For a more dramatic example, consider a scene from Marvel’s The Avengers, recently filmed in Cleveland’s Public Square. For the shoot, Public Square was made-over to look like Stuttgart, Germany.

The excitement of the public around the filming and the set design showed people what Public Square could be.

Apparently, it got the attention of city planners who were already planning a real-life makeover of Public Square due in 2014 or 2015. Cleveland City Councilman Joe Cimperman called the Stuttgart set, “An appetizer. Public Square was intended to be a place where people meet and enjoy each other. It’s not a place like that now. The Avengers is showing what it can be.” So... The Avengers have inspired ordinary people to become true heroes.[6] (Or at the very least got the city planners to entertain the idea of a biergarten.)[7] Films give architecture the power to do the otherwise impossible. Whether that means physically impossible sets and locations, the re-creation of past locales, or the perceived inhabitation of imaginary buildings. Film allows us to see the architecture of the real world become the unreal, even bend to our will (like the dream Paris of Inception). You can’t physically inhabit a film, you can only look at what is essentially a blank wall, but it is still spatial.

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“When I concentrate on a specific site or place for which I am going to design a building, when I try to plumb its depths, its form, its history, and its sensuous qualities, images of other places start to invade this process of precise observation: images of places I know and that once impressed me, images of ordinary or special places, places that I carry with me as inner visions of specific moods and qualities; images of architectural situations, which emanate from the world of art, or films, theater, or literature.”[8] Concrete and celluloid have more in common than you think: the art most closely related to architecture is film.

They occupy a shared history and symbiotic relationship.

And they’re both concerned with telling stories. Architecture must regain its sense of storytelling through space and experience of place. We can accomplish this by more thoughtfully engaging of all the senses with materials, the deployment of spaces, images, and views. The goal is successful communication via architectural promenade, or the creation of performative, theatrical architecture in which the inhabitant and the building itself become actors.

An architectural story may not be composed of words, but that does not diminish its narrative power. These stories can be explained through writing, but at the end of the day, our built work must do the storytelling for us.

“An architectural story may not be composed of words, but that does not diminish its narrative power. These stories can be explained through writing, but at the end of the day, our built work must do the storytelling for us.”

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Works Cited [1] Giuliana Bruno, “Motion and Emotion: Film and the Urban Fabric,” in Cities in Transition: The Moving Image and the Modern Metropolis, eds. Andrew Webber and Emma Wilson (London: Wallflower Press, 2008).

[2] Christian Hayes, “Phantom Carriages: Reconstructing Hale’s Tours and the Virtual Travel Experience,” Early Popular Visual Culture Vol. 7, Iss. 2 (2009).

[3] Mitchell Schwarzer, Zoomscape, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2004).

[4] Giuliana Bruno, “Motion and Emotion: Film and the Urban Fabric,” in Cities in Transition: The Moving Image and the Modern Metropolis, eds. Andrew Webber and Emma Wilson (London: Wallflower Press, 2008).

[5] Le Corbusier and P. Jeanneret Oeuvre Complete, Vol. 2, ed. W. Boesinger (Zurich: Editions Girsberger, 1964).

[6] Addison Godel, quote, 2012.

[7] Tom Beres, “City planners eye Public Square’s ‘Avengers’ movie makeover,” WKYC Cleveland http://www.wkyc.com/news/article/203443/45/City-planners-eye-PublicSquares-Avengers-movie-makeover (August 23, 2011) [8] Peter Zumthor, Thinking Architecture, (Basel: Birkhauser Architecture, 2010).

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Acknowledgments One: Twelve would like to ďŹ rst thank its contributors for their continuing interest in design and the world in which we live. Without their dedication to furthering intellectual inquiry, this publication would not be possible. We’d also like to thank The Knowlton School of Architecture and its Director Michael Cadwell for their steadfast support of this publication. Thank you to Bart Overly, our faculty advisor. Thanks to our members and peers that helped bring this thing together. Without your passion we would not be able to maintain our mission: recording independent student work and providing a venue for critical discourse. We hope that you enjoy our production.

Thanks, One:Twleve

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The Issue Image

FACES III

Buttons & Balustrades This full-scale installation was produced at the conclusion of a seminar which focused on faciality and internet proďŹ ling. The project initially consisted of the creation of a catalog of manipulated canonical elevations which were eventually made three-dimensional.

Stephen Turk with KSA students Paul Adair, Nung Gu Ahn, Luke Anderson, Sarah Bonser, Susan Butts, Crystal DeCastro, Ochuko Evwaraye, Benjamin Flaute, Shawna Foley, Shane Freebourn, Jesse Hall, Andrew Jackson, Alyson Klenke, Hannah Lambert, Emily Mohr, Marcus Myerholtz, John Meyers, Brian Peterson, Melissa Poeppelman, Randal Roberty, Michael Talmon, Dickson Whitney & Sean Zielinkski

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